


Promise

by belovedmuerto



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, PWP, brain!sex, empath!John, experiments in empathy, intercrural, wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belovedmuerto/pseuds/belovedmuerto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hears it at the same time he feels it, along their connection, the gasp in Sherlock’s voice, the distress, the way he suddenly feels utterly overwhelmed, too much sensory input, and not in the way this is supposed to overwhelm him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Moonblossom for the beta.

“John--!”

John hears it at the same time he feels it, along their connection, the gasp in Sherlock’s voice, the distress, the way he suddenly feels utterly overwhelmed, too much sensory input, and not in the way this is supposed to overwhelm him. He drags his lips off of Sherlock’s skin and his body off of Sherlock’s, as fast as he is capable of doing so.

He lets his head hang for a moment, gasping for breath with the echoing sense input from Sherlock, the way it makes his skin prickle unpleasantly while underneath it boils the arousal they’d been passing back and forth between them. He breathes heavily, on his hands and knees above Sherlock supine in the bed, eyes squeezed shut, and then levers himself over to lay on his side next to Sherlock, close but not touching him.

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock murmurs. His eyes are still squeezed shut, his breathing pained and heavy, his hands clenched at his sides.

“None of that,” John replies. He shimmies a bit and pulls his pants up from where they’d been around his knees and rolls onto his back. For a moment, he listens closely to Sherlock’s breathing, as it starts to slow back towards normal, and concentrates on the way Sherlock feels in his head.

The din is subsiding; he no longer feels quite so overwhelmed, so swamped, like every nerve in his body has fired at once and set fire to his brain.

John reaches out and takes Sherlock’s hand in his own, grip firm but not too tight. It is a way to help ground him without causing further distress. It has worked like this in the past, anyway. Sherlock can concentrate on the feeling of his hand in John’s, concentrate on something outside his own body for a few moments, letting the sensory input that had overburdened him subside and just hold on.

It happens like this, sometimes. Sherlock’s sensory issues get the better of him, and sometimes sex exacerbates that.

Usually, though, there are warning signs. Little tweaks in the way Sherlock feels next to, or beneath, or on top of John, and John can sense it coming. They can ease off, avert it.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t feel it coming,” John says. “I didn’t see the warning signs.”

“There weren’t any,” Sherlock replies. He no longer sounds so far away, and the simple fact of that sends a wave of relief through John. He’s coming back to reality, back to John, not running off in his head like he does sometimes. It’s harder for both of them, if Sherlock stays too much in his own head after this sort of thing.

“All right, then?” John says.

Sherlock shrugs. Not really, but he will be, once he can let this go. “Do you want--?”

John shrugs. His own arousal has died off, erection fading away, subsiding along with Sherlock’s while he was too overwhelmed to feel aroused. This is probably the worst it’s ever been, simply because it had been so abrupt, and without warning, neither of them able to do anything before it was too late.

John turns back towards Sherlock, carefully slipping his arm across Sherlock’s chest, making an interrogative noise as he does so: _is this all right?_. Sherlock nods and takes a deep breath in reply, and sighs, accepting the warmth and comfort that John is offering and reflecting back simple gratitude.

No one has ever been accepting of this issue of his, not until John. But John is John, singular in so many ways, and he is glad of that. Simply and entirely glad. John feels his gladness and his gratitude and wants to punch each and every person that Sherlock has ever tried to be close to, for rejecting him when he was vulnerable. He hates them all, for making Sherlock like this. And he’s thankful that they’re as close as they are, that Sherlock trusts him, even with prickly things like this.

Sherlock turns toward John and John gathers him close. He can feel Sherlock’s deep breaths against his neck. 

“Do you want to try again?” John asks, eventually. He cannot tell from the way Sherlock feels, if the slow sizzle of _want_ he still feels, buzzing deep below the surface of his mind, is his alone, or if Sherlock feels it, too.

Sherlock makes a sound with absolutely no clear meaning, but after a moment he lifts his head.

“I could--” he breaks off, as though unsure of what he wants.

John looks at him, and waits.

“I could hold you, while you...?”

John chuckles. “While I wank?” 

“Yes. That.” 

He can feel Sherlock’s interest, slightly detached. He wants to feel John giving himself pleasure, but he doesn’t quite trust himself to participate fully right now. He doesn’t want John to be unsatisfied, or to have to interrupt things again. So he’ll stay somewhat detached.

John is fine with this. He stretches over and places a chaste kiss to Sherlock’s lips. “That would be nice. I’d like that.”

They shift and maneuver in the bed, until they are back to front, John against Sherlock. He wriggles his way out of his pants and drops them over the side of the bed. Sherlock wraps his arms around John as best he can, and rests his chin on John’s shoulder, watching as he takes himself in hand.

It only takes a few long, slow strokes to bring himself back to fully hard, and Sherlock whispers encouragement in his ear, nuzzles along his neck and his shoulder while he wanks.

It is slow, and long, and luxurious. John takes his time, revels in the tightness of Sherlock’s arms around his torso, in the closeness they can still share, even if Sherlock isn’t entirely physically involved.

When he finally comes, he feels it down to his toes, and Sherlock’s moan echoes in his ear.

For a few minutes, John stays quiet and still in Sherlock’s arms, basking in the afterglow. Incapable of summoning movement or thought, really. But he’s sticky and starting to get uncomfortable, so eventually he shifts out of Sherlock’s embrace, sitting on the side of the bed and using his own pants to give himself a cursory wipe down. Good enough.

John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock, stretched out in bed, still naked. His body isn’t showing any signs of interest anymore, beyond the languorousness of his sprawl, but his mind is merry and alight with the pleasure he’d absorbed from John.

While John watches him, smiling, Sherlock stretches, languid and very nearly sated. Nearly post-coital, despite the lack of physical orgasm on his part. 

John quirks an eyebrow. “You look like the cat that got the cream.”

Sherlock shrugs, but smiles. “You make me feel good. Even when…” He lets his voice trail away, but John knows what he means. 

John flops back, so his head is on Sherlock’s stomach, and Sherlock’s fingers immediately slide into his hair. John would purr, if he could. 

“I could probably do a bit more about that, if you like?” John gives him a gentle mental nudge, just a little hint of shareable pleasure. He doesn’t want to push Sherlock, but he doesn’t want to neglect him, either. It could go either way, right now. Sherlock could decide he wants at least the mental release, even if he’s not ready to try for physical release again. Or he could decide that this is enough, John being sated, and he is content.

Sherlock wriggles beneath him, and John knows the answer before he speaks. “Mmmm, yes. More of that, John. Slowly.”

John obliges him.

\----

John wakes up the next morning with Sherlock leaving a trail of sucking, wet kisses down his neck and across his bare shoulder. Sherlock is wrapped around him, limpet-like, and he is feeling much better about the physical aspects of sex, if the way his cock is pressed suggestively into the cleft of John’s arse is any indication. They’re both still naked. John pretty desperately needs a shower, but clearly there are better things to be doing right at this moment than leaving bed for such trivialities.

John twists a little against him so he can see Sherlock’s face. He’s already flushed, rumpled from sleep and a little sweaty from being pressed close to another body all night. John smiles at him and nips at his chin. Sherlock grumbles and ducks his head, rocking against John.

John’s body is reacting in the expected way to this, the proximity, the heat, the arousal simmering through Sherlock’s veins. 

“G’morning,” John murmurs.

“Mmmm, I hope so,” Sherlock replies.

John chuckles a little, and Sherlock tries to glare at him, but fails when John wriggles against him, settling instead on a soft moan, the flush on his face creeping further, down his neck and across his chest.

John nips at Sherlock’s jawline this time, and pushes back against him, his warmth, his scent, the pleasant sizzle of arousal coursing through his veins. Sherlock preens with the attention, holding John tighter and rocking against him again.

“What would you like?” John murmurs against Sherlock’s jaw. He lets himself be held, and Sherlock’s reaction to his question is visceral, immediate.

The image of it flows through John’s mind while Sherlock moans against his shoulder, just thinking about it, thinking about fucking John’s thighs.

“Mmmm,” John replies, “that sounds good.” 

Sherlock moans again. John gently extricates himself from Sherlock’s embrace, enough to reach across the bed and rummage in the nightstand until he comes up with the lubricant they keep there. He passes it back to Sherlock, who uncaps it with shaking hands. John feels Sherlock’s fingers, between his thighs, slick and cool with the lube, followed closely by Sherlock’s cock, hard and hot, and they both moan. 

Sherlock’s arms wrap around John again, and his breath pants in John’s ear.

“Slow, love,” John asks, breathless. “Take it easy.”

John squeezes his legs together, providing a nice tight space for Sherlock to thrust into, and Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s cock, drawing more moans from both of them as the shared pleasure between them multiplies.

Slow as he goes, Sherlock’s rhythm still falters at the end, and he comes before John, with a drawn out moan of John’s name. John joins him a few moments later, finishing himself off with Sherlock’s post-coital and somewhat awkward help. He comes smiling into his pillow.

They stay plastered together for long minutes, both of them enjoying the afterglow, felt and reflected. If they tried, they could probably stay there the whole day, basking in each other, passing the joy and pleasure of it back and forth. They could spend the whole day in bed and be utterly worn out from it and not even physically have any more sex, and it would be wonderful.

There is life outside this bed, though. 

And John is pretty disgusting, at this point.

“OK,” he ventures, patting Sherlock’s hands where they are still locking his arms together in a band around John’s torso. “I _really_ need a shower now.”

Sherlock licks his shoulder, and John can feel his smile. “Nah.”

“No? You think so?” John is grinning too, and he twists to loop and arm around Sherlock’s neck, pulling him in for a quick, morning-breath-filled snog. “You’re not the one covered in come, Sherlock. And lube.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “You do taste of sweat and sex,” he allows. “But I like it.”

John chuckles. “Yes, well. Some weekend we can go to Sussex and I’ll not shower the whole weekend and I’ll be disgusting just for you, but for today I think I’m going to shower.”

Sherlock blinks at him as the idea of that fires in his brain, and John watches as Sherlock finds that he really, _really_ likes the sound of it.

“You promise?” Sherlock croaks.

John grins, and pulls Sherlock in for another snog. “Yeah. I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is basically one of my headcanons for these two. Sherlock has sensory issues sometimes, and it crops up sometimes during sex, interrupting things. And now I'm sharing it with you.
> 
> I have a lot of headcanons about empath!John and Sherlock. Not all of them are this porny.


End file.
